own me. I know them. Love! In my world, peculiar in that world in which I live, there is no such thing as love — only a showy imitation. Yes, they think they love me. ‘When we are married you will not sing any more; you will be mine then,’ says one. That is what he imagines is love. And others would have me for the gold-mine that is in my throat. I can read their greed in their faces.”
Her candid bitterness surprised as much as it charmed me.
“Aren’t you a little hard on them?” I ventured.
“Now, am I?” she retorted. “Don’t be a hypocrite. Am I?”
I said nothing.
“You know perfectly well I’m not,” she answered for me.